


Gifts

by veronamay



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Christmas, Gift Giving, M/M, Not Beta Read, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-23
Updated: 2005-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas.  Wilson works late.  House goes shopping.  Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas present fic for [](http://nigeltde.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nigeltde.livejournal.com/)**nigeltde** , who is all kinds of cool. For you, dear. Unbeta'd, but I trust that won't hurt too much.

"This is stupid." House glared at the display case. "Pointless. Insulting, even. A waste of my invaluable time. Why am I here instead of at work, saving lives?"

"Can I help you, sir?"

He turned around and looked down – way down – at the seven-year-old sales clerk favoring him with the fakest of fake smiles.

"I doubt it," he replied. "What kind of Christmas present do you buy for the successful Jewish doctor who has everything?"

"Uh ..." The clerk cleared his throat. "Nothing, usually. Jewish people don't celebrate Christmas."

House slapped his forehead.

"Oh, jeez! I totally forgot about that. Thanks so much for solving my tricky dilemma, Sparky. See ya." He waved a cutesy bye-bye and headed for the door. The clerk followed, scenting a lost sale.

"Wait a second! A doctor, huh? Lucky you. Male or female?"

House turned again and narrowed his eyes.

"Male," he said, daring the kid to comment. "Mid-thirties, two ex-wives and another on the way." He held up his hand as the clerk began to speak. "If you try to sell me a set of cuff links with menorahs on them, I will hit you with my cane."

The clerk swallowed hard but held his ground. Plucky little infant. House was almost impressed.

"I think I can do better than that, sir," the clerk said. His nametag said 'Andy'. Figured. "You've come to the right place."

"Don't toy with me," House warned. "I've been to five department stores today and I'm on a hair trigger."

"Follow me."

Andy led him to the back of the store, where a glass-topped counter sat discreetly behind a rack of criminally ugly ties. House trailed him warily, still wondering what he was doing here. Wilson wasn't expecting anything. Aside from the whole conflict of faiths thing, they'd decided not to do all that couple stuff. House hated couple stuff. Wilson wasn't big on it either. And yet here House was, gazing at a row of tasteful gold tie clips, wondering if the half-carat diamond was too obvious for a first gift.

Maybe he should just get a tattoo: 'Property of J Wilson' in inch-high capitals across his ass. It meant the same thing in the end, and it'd be a great conversation piece during his annual prostate check.

House looked at the clips for about ten minutes, trying to convince himself to brave the embarrassment, buy one and get the hell out, when the bell at the front of the store jingled. He looked up reflexively as Andy abandoned him for fresh blood, and from the corner of his eye he caught sight of the tie rack again. He started, straightened, and stared.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," he breathed.

Two minutes later he left the store a happy and satisfied customer.

* * *

Wilson worked late on Christmas. It quelled the grumbles that flew around when he took time off for Yom Kippur. Not that he was really entitled; he wasn't a very good Jew. But it was appearances that mattered, so he worked the holiday without a fuss. He didn't mind, usually: it saved him from falsely cheerful, not-Christmas family dinners, and it helped his reputation.

This year was different. This year House was waiting for him at home, and because of that incredibly appealing thought Wilson found himself begrudging every minute he spent on rounds and in the clinic. He rushed through consultations as if that would make the time go faster. It didn't. Things weren't as busy as he'd expected, but it was still after nine when he signed out.

He almost ran to the parking lot, and swore with great invention when he caught three red lights in a row. At the third one, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried to think calm thoughts. Home. A glass of wine. A quiet dinner. With House.

Okay, so thoughts of House weren't exactly conducive to calm. But they perked him up more than a double espresso.

Wilson's cell phone beeped: a new SMS. He pulled over to the curb. The message was from House.

_ETA?_

_10 mins + traffic_ , he sent.

_OK. Bring lube._

He dropped the phone.

* * *

Eight minutes later Wilson walked through the door of House's apartment. The man himself was sprawled on the sofa watching _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. Tim Curry was romping around in Barry Bostwick's bed. Wilson didn't blame either of them. He thought House would look better in fishnets, though.

"Hello, dear," House said, sitting up as Wilson shed briefcase, overcoat and shoes at the door. "How was your day?"

"Awful." Wilson came over and flopped down next to him. "Remind me again why I always work Christmas?"

"It appeases your misplaced sense of guilt," House told him, and pulled him close for a kiss. "Hello."

"Hi," Wilson murmured. He loosened his tie and kissed House again, then slid down to lie with his head in House's lap. House muted the TV and stroked Wilson's hair.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Sort of." Wilson looked up and caught a look of uncertainty on House's face. "What?"

House cleared his throat.

"I ... have something for you," he said. "Two somethings, actually. There." He nodded at the coffee table. Wilson turned his head and saw a silver gift box about the size of a paperback.

"I thought we said no presents," he said mildly.

"Oh, come on." House shifted underneath him. "When people say, 'no presents', they really mean, 'get me something hideously expensive or else'." He scowled. "Just shut up and open it, will you?"

Wilson hid a smile and reached out for the box, opening it and tipping it up on his chest so he could see inside. On a bed of dark blue silk there nestled a gold tie clip sporting a discreet diamond chip.

Next to it, rolled up neatly, was the most revolting tie Wilson had ever seen.

It was green and purple and mustard yellow, and somehow managed to be paisley and checked at the same time. It was a tie that could make women faint in the streets and set off epileptic seizures. A homicidal maniac designed this tie.

"Do you think it clashes?" House asked.

"I have no idea," Wilson said, unable to take his eyes off it. "All my color receptors are burned out. Where on earth did you find this thing? It looks like a reject from a Cyndi Lauper video."

"You ought to know," House said.

"Huh?"

House poked the tie with a cautious finger, as if it might bite.

"You were wearing this tie the day we met."

Wilson looked at him, then back at the tie. Then back at House again, who was grinning, the smug bastard.

"I don't know which is more disturbing," he said, "me wearing it or you remembering it." He picked up the tie clip, which House was clearly trying to avoid mention of, and studied it. It felt good in his hand. Solid. Real. House watched him silently, his hand still moving in Wilson's hair.

"It's beautiful," Wilson said at last. "And hideously expensive, I presume. Thank you." He leaned up, and House met him more than halfway. They lingered over this kiss, deepened it, broke away gasping.

"Note to self," House said. "Buy Wilson more presents. It makes him easy." He waggled his eyebrows. Wilson laughed.

"I'm easy anyway," he pointed out.

"Prove it."

House was smirking. Wilson smirked back at him and pulled a tube of K-Y from his pocket.

"Merry Christmas," he said. " Last one to the bedroom has to top."

END


End file.
